In This as in Everything Else
by eeelastic9
Summary: Sherlock turns up three years after his fall expecting John to welcome him back with angry (but open) arms. He's half right.


"Small coffee, black." John offers a detached smile to the pretty barista, whose name badge reads "Jenni". Jenni grabs a cup, and turns around to fill it with steaming hot liquid caffeine.

John's shift starts in 45 minutes. He never used to need caffeine like this, but over the past six months, he's discovered the precise amount of time before a shift that he needs his coffee to make it through the day. _Sherlock would have been proud, _John thinks bitterly. _Though it's thanks to him that I can't sleep and I need the coffee in the first place._

Bouncing back to the counter, Jenni places the little Styrofoam cup down gently.

"Thanks. What do I owe?"

Jenni opens her mouth to tell John, but her eyes flick upwards to something behind John.

A pale hand reaches over John's shoulder, holding a note in his hand.

"Keep the change," says a quiet, rich, baritone voice.

John's eyes widen in horror. His heart seems to stop. _No_. Slowly he turns around.

_No,_ John repeats. _Don't do this to yourself. Stop it. _John hates when his mind turns on him as it has so often in the past six months: Imagining that coat whipping around a corner, catching a hint of Sherlock's soap, even hearing street performers playing the violin. It all peels off the painful, mangled scab on his heart.

He can't bear it.

But this time, it is not his mind playing cruel jokes. There he is. In the flesh. Sherlock Holmes: gaunt, standing tall and confidently as ever.

Sherlock _fucking _Holmes.

John meets those piercing blue-green eyes for an instant, and then he flees the coffee shop without his drink.

His emotions are out of control. He is angry, but overjoyed; terrified, yet relieved. Every emotion John Watson has ever felt crashes through his veins at once and his breath becomes shallow, vision blurring, and it's a wonder he can make it the three blocks home to Baker Street.

xXx

Gingerly opening the door to the flat, Sherlock calls out to his flatmate. "John? John, I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that. I—Can we talk?"

Silence.

"Please?"

He climbs the stairs to John's bedroom to find him sitting on the edge of his bed. The door is open, but Sherlock knocks anyway. He _knocks_.

"Are you proud of yourself now?" John snaps.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Giving me a bloody heart attack in a coffee shop!"

"John, please, tell me what to do to make it better. Anything."

"You honestly think there's some magical thing that can make everything okay?"

"I didn't say 'okay', I said better. And I've already apologised twice! And I said please and I knocked and—"

"That's not gonna cut it, sweetheart," John says derisively.

Sherlock's mouth twists into an uncomfortable line, but he holds his tongue. He waits.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? That you can give me a hug and fix everything?"

"Can I?"

John drags a hand over his face. "Oh for the love of—No! Sherlock, not even close. You were dead! Do you have even the faintest idea what that did to me?"

The twist of Sherlock's mouth drops into a deep frown, and the depth of sadness in his eyes is almost enough for John to stop.

Almost.

"Don't even try to answer that, because we both know that you have _no_ concept of how much you hurt me. You never think about anyone but yourself."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, waiting to see if John will continue. When the only sound in the flat is John's heavy breathing, Sherlock speaks. "That isn't fair, John. I know I must have hurt you a great deal, but believe me, I'd rather you be hurt than dead. I thought about you every day I was gone.

Every day, I thought of you alone, hoping for once that one of those silly women you used to date would finally make you happy in a way I never could. I thought of you mourning me, hating myself for putting you through it, even though I planned to return to you. I think I still hate myself," he adds quietly.

"But don't say I have no concept of your pain. And don't say that I never think of anyone else, because I felt much of your pain being apart from you, and I thought of you every day. I thought of—I put _you _first, knowing that I had to jump to save your life! Believe me when I say that if I had had time for another solution that would not result in your death, I would have taken it."

John stares at him for a moment, his face a mix between anger and sadness. He shifts his weight on his feet, hands twitching at his sides, uncertain what to do next.

"I would have done anything for you, John." Sherlock reaffirms almost inaudibly. Before John can stop him, Sherlock takes two long strides toward his best friend, places a dry, quick kiss on his cheek, and swirls out of the flat.

John is frozen in place momentarily before he is able to react. With a start, he bounds down the stairs, hoping to chase after Sherlock. He calls out to the detective, yelling "Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!" But the man is nowhere to be found.

John feels the panic rising in his chest as he crumples to the pavement in front of Speedy's. He buries his face in his hands and does his best to ignore the passersby.

###

Sherlock, for his part, had merely escaped downstairs to Mrs Hudson's flat. When John was unavailable (or unwilling) to give advice concerning social or emotional issues, Sherlock usually fell back to his dear landlady.

"Sherlock, this isn't my place. You need to tell _him_, dear, not me."

"But he won't listen! He's too angry. I just need to know if I should give him time or if I should confront the issue immediately, up front." Sherlock paces back and forth as Mrs Hudson fidgets with her necklace.

"Well, what sort of man is your doctor? Is he an up front man or does he take his time?"

Sherlock freezes mid-stride, then whips around to hug Mrs Hudson. "You are _brilliant_ you are. My god, I've become so disoriented by all these emotions and such that I'd forgotten to apply my own methods!"

Sherlock bounds out of Mrs Hudson's flat, pauses minutely to determine where John would have gone (he heard John run down the stairs after him) and then dashes outside and finds John seated at a table inside Speedy's.

Dramatic as always, Sherlock throws open the café door. "Get up, John. I'd like to confront this issue directly and presently, and I know how much you dislike making a scene. Come back up to the flat and I'll answer all your questions and then things can get back... Well, things can move forward from there."

John ducks his head down to his coffee cup, anxiously glancing about for other customers who may be staring at the very scene Sherlock claims he wished to avoid.

Shaking his head, John pushes back from the table with a loud scraping sound, muttering, "unbelievable" to himself.

John stomps up the stairs of 221B, Sherlock on his heels.

When the door closes—a bit more loudly than John intended—Sherlock clasps his hands together and begins, "Thank you, John. Now, where—or I suppose, when—would you like me to start?"

John considers a moment, and then shoves Sherlock backwards, sending him staggering into the door. A look of bewilderment crosses the detective's face, and before Sherlock can possibly have a chance to process it, John yanks him down by collar to plant an angry, hard kiss on his lips. As soon as they break, Sherlock with a gasp, John yanks back his fist to punch him squarely in the jaw.

With a cry, Sherlock brings a hand to his jaw. "John! Wha—"

"How about you start from the beginning?"

_It's going to be a long day,_ Sherlock thinks.

###

It is a long day for both of them. After Sherlock explains in great detail the events leading up to and after the fall, as well as dismantling Moriarty's entire network, John, amazingly, has more questions.

Sherlock stays calm and patient, carefully explaining everything and letting John absorb, understand, and accept all that has come to pass.

It is dark when John announces that he has no more questions at the moment, but he reserves the right to ask more in the future.

"Of course, John," Sherlock replies earnestly.

"Right. Well I'm exhausted, as you can well imagine, so I'm going to bed. Try to keep it down if you're going to be up all night, yeah? No violin today."

"I don't even have it with me, yet. Mycroft's still holding onto it. But yes, of course, John."

With an almost military nod, John does an about face and marches towards his room: which, he remembers, was once Sherlock's.

After the Fall, John couldn't bear to leave behind the memories of Baker Street and his best friend. He told himself it was because his leg began to act up that he moved downstairs into Sherlock's room, but somewhere along the line he had to admit to himself that it gave him that tiny bit of comfort to fall asleep in his dead-flatmate's room. Some nights he'd dream about Sherlock coming back, finding him curled up asleep, clutching Sherlock's old pillow. In the dream, Sherlock would climb into bed behind John, wrapping those stupidly long limbs around him and never letting go.

Those nights, John would wake up with tears on his face and a mixture of grief and shame in his chest.

But now, John realizes what Sherlock must be thinking. He debates whether or not to address it, and decides he'll never sleep if he doesn't. "Look, my leg was bothering me, so I switched rooms. What's... what's left of your things are upstairs in my old room. You can sleep up there if you're going to sleep."

A slight smirk graces Sherlock's face, a glimpse of his past mischievousness. "No, it's far too drafty up there; if I sleep the sofa will do just fine."

"Suit yourself," John replies, grateful that Sherlock hasn't turned this into a huge deduction-style unravelling of John's psyche. He is decidedly _not _in the mood for that.

Before he can think of anything else to say or keep him up and on edge all night, he closes the bedroom door behind him and shuts out the light.

###

"Morning," John offered hesitantly, heading straight for the kettle.

No response. Sherlock is standing by the window, one arm across his chest and the other elbow propped on it, chin resting on bony knuckles. He's still dressed from yesterday.

"Up all night then?" John tries again. Sherlock grunts.

"Right. Can I get you to eat or drink something?" Sherlock waves his hand like he's shooing a fly, but John gets out a second mug anyway.

John prepares the tea, and brings Sherlock's over to the window, holding it out in front of him like a gesture of peace.

Sherlock starts a bit, though he must have heard John take out the second mug, but he takes it from John silently.

Sherlock is about to take a sip of the steaming hot beverage that reminds him so much of John and _home_ when he pauses, and draws in a sharp breath.

John is mid-sip when Sherlock pries the mug from him, setting the two down on the coffee table, and spins John by the shoulders so that they are facing each other squarely.

Sherlock bends over slightly so that he can see eye-to-eye with John. The shorter man looks nervous but doesn't say anything, doesn't try to break Sherlock's grip.

Those piercing eyes narrow, examining the very depths of John Watson.

John swallows, but does his best to hold the gaze of his best friend.

A dozen questions race through Sherlock's mind, and he can't decide which, if any, to ask first.

John licks his lips, shifts his weight on his feet; still, Sherlock stares at him—_into _him.

"Why?" Is all Sherlock asks, but John seems to understand.

"Because you're _you_."

This is not the answer Sherlock was expecting, and this cryptic speaking-but-not-speaking thing isn't working.

"What does that mean?" he asks, quietly but insistently.

Finally, John pulls back from Sherlock, turning away from him. "Because you're _Sherlock Holmes_, the brilliant, amazing, genius of a man who, for whatever reason, found me vaguely decent company. You're Sherlock Holmes, the absolute madman, perhaps the cruellest person I've ever met, who committed what I now know to be fake suicide right in front of me. You're Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the world's biggest git, and my best friend."

John is shaking now, having quickly escalated to shouting, trying desperately to alleviate some of the grief turned to anger that had festered in his mind in the past 24 hours.

"You're Sherlock _bloody _Holmes," he says, his voice cracking as tears well up in his eyes, "And you made me love with you and then you ripped everything from my hands." He hangs his head low, now, no longer able to meet Sherlock's eyes, no longer able to see his broken expression. "You ripped yourself out of my life in the most heartless way possible."

John steps closer to Sherlock, whose features have warped into a mask of terror and sadness and desperation. "And for that I should hate you," John adds.

A pain shoots through Sherlock's chest, sharp and cold. John _should _hate him. It would only be fair. Sherlock can live with that, if he has to. As long as John is alive and safe, Sherlock can live with John hating him.

But oh, how he hopes he won't have to. He closes his eyes, knowing he should agree, he should say "yes, John, you probably should hate me."

But he doesn't. And John doesn't. Instead, John puts one hand along Sherlock's jaw, thumb resting gently on Sherlock's cheekbone. Sherlock's eyes fly open, and a choked sort of gasp escapes his lungs.

"I want to hate you for it," John sighs, "but I can't. It's not in me. You hurt me, you ruined me, and now you've come back to me. And I simply can't find it in me to hate you."

Sherlock thinks he might cry, but he settles for a big, lopsided grin instead. He hugs John aggressively, so glad that John seems to understand, that he still wants Sherlock in his life.

John hugs him back for a moment, clutching tightly to the man's shoulders and taking in a deep breath of his scent: a hint of cigarette smoke, sweat, and peppermint. But then John stumbles back from Sherlock's clutches, puts his hand back on his face as before.

"But just because I don't hate you for what you did, doesn't mean I'm not absolutely _pissed _at you." And with that he draws his hand back for a quick, hard slap across Sherlock's face.

Sherlock is shocked, and though he knows he deserved it, he must admit he's more than a bit confused by the mixture of affection and anger.

"John?" he asks.

John responds with another slap to Sherlock's face. "Nope, not ready for you to talk yet."

Sherlock stretches his jaw, rubbing at it. Though he's grateful, Sherlock must admit he's surprised John didn't punch him.

"Right," John says. "That actually felt very satisfying. I'm still very, very upset, Sherlock. You've put me through hell, quite frankly, in the past day. I need some time to myself right now, okay? Like, a couple of days to myself."

Sherlock schools his features into as neutral a position as possible, and nods firmly. He isn't sure if he's allowed to speak yet, so he bites his lip and rolls it around a bit to hold himself back.

"I'll call you when I'm ready to see you again, okay? Here," John says as he digs his phone out of his pocket, "put your number in here as I'm assuming you've a new one now."

Sherlock doesn't take the phone.

"Sherlock, put your number in my phone. I'm going to call you in a few days, okay? Oh for—you can speak now, alright? I'm done slapping you."

"I already put my number in your phone. Last night, while you were asleep."

A sad smile graces John's mouth. "Of course you did. Alright, well off you go, then. I'm sure Mycroft can look after you a couple days? Or you can find a hotel, something. Go see some other people who thought you were dead; get it over and done with, right?" He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a cough. He rubs the back of his neck as he directs Sherlock toward the door.

"I'll call you, okay?" John licks his lips.

"John, I—" Sherlock's eyes dart back and forth, searching, debating, and then he swoops in for a second dry, chaste kiss, but this time on John's confused and open lips, and whispers, "I prefer to text."

Sherlock dashes down the seventeen steps to the street, whips the door open, and is gone. John rushes to the window to see his best friend cross the street, long coat billowing behind him.

John wants to tear down the stairs after him and punch him and kiss him and never let go of him, but he restrains himself.

He can't give in to that feeling when he knows a huge portion of it is pure happiness that Sherlock isn't dead. It's been a day. He can't just go snog his back-from-the-dead flatmate because he's alive. He needs to process this, work through his less rational thoughts, and then get back into territory Sherlock can work with.

John's fairly certain that the two, strange kisses from Sherlock were the result of the man not knowing what to do with the emotions he may have been feeling. He hadn't seen John in three years; it was only natural that he wanted to physically confirm it. Maybe Sherlock thought it was what John expected of him, though he can't imagine why. The kiss on the cheek, maybe. But the last one? He must know. He _has _to know that wasn't normal—or necessary.

But the more John thinks about it, the more necessary he thinks it was. His anger at Sherlock is almost forgotten; thoughts focused on that strange display of affection from his "high-functioning sociopath".

John realises it's not a matter of will he let Sherlock back in, but _when_, and brushing fingertips over his lips, still feeling where Sherlock's met his, John knows it will be sooner rather than later.

###

John doesn't sleep that night. He lies awake in the middle of his/used-to-be-Sherlock's bed. He wants to scream, throw things, shoot things, but as angry as he is and wants to be, he just wants Sherlock to come back. His anger begins to turn inwards to himself. John is angry that he sent Sherlock away. He's scared when he asks Sherlock to come back, Sherlock will say no, or worse, he will be gone again.

At 4:32 in the morning, forty three hours and sixteen minutes since Sherlock came back from the dead, John Watson picked up his phone.

_I made a mistake. Come back._

John's thumb hovers over the send key. He deletes the draft, tries again.

_Did I say a few days? I meant hours. _

He chuckles a bit at that one before deciding it's too much.

_Changed my mind. Come home. _

John presses send.

Minutes later, he falls asleep.

###

John wakes much later than he intended, bright sunshine streaming through the window. He is pleasantly warm, and contemplates staying in bed a while longer, but his stomach growls and he decides food is a good idea. His hand seeks the edge of the blanket at his waist, and instead finds the hand of Sherlock Holmes.

It feels as though John's heart has leapt into his throat, as he pries Sherlock's hand and arm off of him.

"Sherlock! Christ, you scared me. What the hell are you doing in my bed?"

Sherlock looks rather like a cat, John thinks, sleeping in the midday sunshine.

"I got your text."

"And did my text say 'come spoon me in bed?'" John yells hysterically.

Sherlock scrambles into a sitting position, the blankets falling off his chest and John realises the man is only wearing his pajama bottoms. "No, but—"

"But what? You thought that _come home _meant... Meant this?"

"John, I—"

John says nothing, just turns out of the room, rounds the corner into the kitchen, and begins rummaging through the fridge for eggs, cheese, and mushrooms.

Sherlock emerges from the bedroom, now with a worn-out light grey t-shirt on, and carefully approaches John, who has just put a skillet on.

"Making an omelette; you want one?"

Sherlock ignores his confusion, and to his great surprise, responds, "That would be lovely. Thank you."

"Cheese and mushrooms alright?"

"Have we got any peppers in?"

"Check the crisper. Think there's one left."

Sherlock's mind screams at him, _why, why, why?_ But he knows that if he brings it up, John will only get more upset with him.

The whole scene is incredibly domestic, and Sherlock rather likes it. He finds he actually is a bit hungry, and he settles down at the kitchen table to watch John cook.

"If you want that pepper, it'll need to be cut up. I take it you can slice up a pepper?"

"Yes, of course, John."

"Right, well then get to it before the skillet's ready."

Sherlock realises he has no idea where John keeps the knives, nor even which knife is appropriate for slicing up a bell pepper. But to his delight and fascination, when he turns to examine the first set of drawers, John is standing with the required knife and a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Sherlock does a poor job of cutting up the pepper, but most of the seeds are out of the way, and the pieces are small enough that John doesn't care. Sherlock puts them in a small bowl next to John, so when he's ready he can toss them in.

John deftly pushes the eggs around in the skillet, trying to make sure it's even and the edges don't stick or burn. He sprinkles in some cheese when he thinks the consistency is right, and tosses the peppers in for Sherlock. Flipping the whole thing over, John gives it a moment, and then flips the whole omelette onto a plate and hands it to Sherlock.

Sherlock takes it to the table and watches John start on his own omelette, cracking the eggs over the side of the skillet. Sherlock watches his hands, John's eyes keeping close watch on the hiss and pop of the eggs. Forgetting about his own food—not altogether difficult for Sherlock—he stands up once more and joins John at the stove.

Something in the moment, with John in his pyjamas and sleep-mussed hair, cooking omelettes like nothing's changed, nothing is new, Sherlock is overcome by a strange desire to wrap his arms around John again.

His brain tells him this is a bad idea, given John's reaction to waking up in the man's arms not twenty minutes ago, not to mention the man is frying eggs. This can only end poorly for Sherlock, really, he thinks.

But then he remembers John's words yesterday when he all but kicked him out of the flat: _get it over and done with_.

Sherlock isn't one for bearing grudges, or needing time to process feelings. He evaluates and reacts, and that's all there is to it. So with a grace and certainty he doesn't feel in his mind, Sherlock slips two long arms around John's middle, and nuzzles his cheek against his doctor's.

As the eggs sizzle, John nuzzles back, melting into Sherlock. Surprised at John's lack of resistance, Sherlock risks a light kiss to the smooth skin just below John's ear, whispers a thank you, and returns to the table to eat his breakfast.

John flips his omelette one final time, and drops it on a plate, and joins Sherlock at the table.

They eat their breakfast in silence, sneaking glances at each other, and pretending to be very interested in their food if the other catches them.

Omelettes eaten – well, mostly, on Sherlock's part—John clears the dishes and puts them in the sink. He turns around, leans against the worktop, and crosses his arms.

Sherlock rises, too, though he's uncertain what to expect.

"You want to tell me why all the little kisses, Sherlock?"

"I—I wanted to demonstrate affection for you," he says cautiously.

John makes a strange face, but responds, "anything else?"

Sherlock blinks. "Should there be?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On what kind of affection you're feeling."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Course you don't."

"John, please. I really am trying to understand; I just need you to give me more to work with. My vocabulary is not equipped for this kind of discussion."

"What do you want from me, Sherlock? That's what I mean. Do you want things to go back to the way they were before?"

"Yes, of course."

"Too bad, because that's impossible. You've been gone for too long. You've put me through too much."

"Then, I want things to be like they were before while acknowledging that we have both... changed."

"Not gonna cut it for me."

"Well then what do _you_ want from _me,_ John?" Sherlock shouts. It's too much, it really is. Sherlock's emotions have been held hostage, under lock and key, for decades—they had to be, alone protected him—but now he's being overloaded, his feelings cascading around him.

John had awoken Sherlock's emotional responses not long after they met, but Sherlock knew that to keep John by his side, he had to tuck them away. Sometimes, on the nights he didn't sleep, Sherlock would open up his thoughts to John, to how essential John was, to how much he _needed _John, however his friend would have him.

But when dawn came, Sherlock packed everything away again, desperate to never discuss something so trivial and pointless as his desperate reliance on his one and only friend.

Clearing his throat, John responds slowly, carefully, as though he's reading a script. "I want you, back in my life, as my friend—my best friend—and my flatmate. I want _you_, back with me. It's where you belong."

Sherlock can scarcely breathe.

John presses on. "But you have to realise that I'm going to have different expectations of you, to earn back my trust. You can't just go running off all the time. I'm not your parent, but I want to know where you're going and what you'll be doing. If it could be dangerous, I'm going with you. If I have any reason to believe that you're lying to me about where you've been, I will find out the truth, and there _will _be consequences."

Sherlock nods. "Of course, John. I understand. I will keep you informed of all activities for which I leave the flat, though you're welcome to join me wherever I go. I can't think of anything I'll be doing that you can't come with me for."

"And Sherlock? One more thing." John's hands begin to fidget now, he's nervous. _Why_?

The detective raises his eyebrows in response.

"I'd... I just want you to know that it's okay. The hugging, and, uh, the kisses. It's alright. With me, I mean. If you want to."

"Are you certain, John? When you woke up this morning you seemed more than a bit opposed."

"Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me. And if you recall I was much more, ah, receptive in the kitchen."

"And will you continue to be receptive?" Sherlock asks gently.

"Just come here, will you?"

John sinks backwards onto the couch, as he grabs Sherlock's hands and pulls him down into his lap. The man's limbs are really too long for this, but after a bit of shifting, they find a way to sit that's comfortable for both of them.

John runs his hands up Sherlock's arms, to his shoulders, coming to a stop with one hand in glossy black curls, the other curved gently to the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's eyes are out of focus, darting between John's eyes and John's lips and John is everywhere at once as their lips meet.

The kisses between them are no longer dry and chaste; John opens Sherlock's mouth and slips his tongue inside, flicking it over Sherlock's own.

It's a strange sensation, one Sherlock has not experienced in at least seven years, but Sherlock decides that kissing John is the only thing he wants to do for the rest of his life.

John's mouth is gentle but firm against his own, wickedly sweet and decidedly wet. Sherlock's lips are soft and pliant, but he grips John's shoulders so tightly he thinks there may be marks left on John's skin.

Sherlock's mind is normally running in at least ten directions at once, but he finds it has slowed down to only three or four now, and at least two of those are about John. The third is that he wishes he had been able to put on a Shostakovich recording, to lose himself in both auditory bliss and John, but the fourth argues that listening to the little sounds John makes, his breath, his heart pounding, the quiet sucking and sliding sounds of their mouths against each other's—that is its own form of auditory bliss, and he makes a mental note every time he elicits a more vocal reaction.

John's hands, those beautifully strong hands, roam all over Sherlock, up and down his back, tracing his spine, over his ribs, his hips, his arse, and his thighs all earning the fleeting contact of those doctor's hands, so sure but rough in the best imaginable way.

John's grip tightens on Sherlock's body, and he swings them both to a supine position on the sofa.

Pressed against each other, chest to chest, Sherlock can feel John's heart beating against his own. John parts his knees, wrapping one leg around Sherlock's hips, the other leg hooking around Sherlock's. Sherlock grips at John's knee, pressing in with his own hips, for more contact, more of something.

Their kisses have slowed to a lazy, deep rhythm, learning each other's mouths and tastes.

Sherlock, for his part, feels as though all of his concentration has been focused into John: tasting, breathing, smelling, feeling, all of his razor sharp focus and intellect and powers of observation zeroed in on one man, one action.

John is fighting through an entire spectrum of emotions, though he tries to focus only on the feeling of Sherlock's body against his, those lush, Cupid's bow lips nibbling down his neck, and the blissful weight and warmth of the man's body draped across his.

John puts his anger and frustration into the kisses, gasping out his pent up grief, his fears, the trust he wishes he could withhold from Sherlock but just can't follow through.

Sherlock rucks up John's shirt, blazing his fingers down John's abdomen. He tries to wriggle down further, but John stops him. He pulls him back up, and captures his mouth again, slower, more tenderly than before.

John pulls Sherlock's face away from his so he can get a proper look at the man. Sherlock's eyes are unfocused, hazy. He looks so young, so vulnerable, that John pulls him in again for a soft, sweet kiss. But John needs to see Sherlock's face, so he pulls back again.

John starts to sit up to get a better look at this impossible man, back from the dead and in John's arms, but Sherlock squeezes him tightly, pressing down against John. "Please, just stay here," Sherlock whispers. "Let's just stay here."

And really, who is John to say no at this point? He sighs and repositions Sherlock so they can both lie comfortable on the couch for a while longer.

They doze off in each other's arms, and for a little while, everything is as it should be.

###

For the next few weeks, everything begins to fall into place, a comfortable rhythm that reassures both men that this is what they need.

John still snaps at Sherlock, and Sherlock still makes a mess. It is startling how quickly John seems to accept Sherlock's sudden reappearance, and his very different role from before his three year absence.

Both men have somehow become _more _dependent on each other, although John won't let anyone see it outside their flat.

Sherlock learns this the hard way, having missed the signal that it was to be kept private.

"They won't understand," John presses when Sherlock tries to wrap an arm around John's shoulders. "Hell, I'm not sure that I understand how I just put aside the fact that you were dead for three years and now we're... we're closer than ever. I need time for this, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods though he does not understand, and shoves his hands aggressively into his coat pockets.

When they get home, Sherlock is impossibly tactile, hanging all over John for the rest of the afternoon.

After Sherlock has been back for almost five months, he gets a phone call for a case. It's not through the Yard—they still won't permit him back on crime scenes, but Sherlock is all but climbing the walls, and so he takes it, although he says it's only a six.

"Honestly, I never used to leave the house for more than an eight, and here I am jumping at a six," he complains as he hails a cab. "Well, should be diverting enough for an afternoon."

"Things'll pick up, Sherlock. You just need to get back out there, build up your reputation again. Your name was cleared, but there's still suspicion and shadows lurking around you. This case will be good for you," John affirms, sliding into the cab.

"I do hope you're right, John," Sherlock sighs, settling in next to his flatmate and moves to drop a kiss in John's hair.

But John jerks away, shifting as far away as possible, leaning against the window. Sherlock gives the address to the cabbie, but watches John wistfully.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Are you actually sorry or are you apologising because you think it's what I want to hear?"

"I'm sorry that I've upset you. We spend so much time in the flat that sometimes I forget what I'm doing and I know it upsets you. But I'm not sorry I did it. Well, tried to."

"Sorry, where's the distinction? You're not sorry that you did it, only that it upset me?"

"Er, yes."

"Let's pretend that makes sense."

"John?"

John squeezes the bridge of his nose. "Don't worry about it."

"I'd like to understand."

"But you won't."

"If you'd just explain it to me then—"

"I said don't worry about it."

Sherlock sets his mouth in a hard line and is silent for the rest of the cab ride.

When they arrive at the scene, police tape is up, and several officers are there as well.

"Thought you said this was a private client," John grumbles.

"It is. We weren't brought in by the police, which means something new must have happened. This may well become a seven, John!"

John rolls his eyes but follows Sherlock out of the cab (though he is left, as usual, to pay). Sherlock strolls in like he owns the place, and quickly identifies the man who actually does.

"Mr Cooper, I presume? Sherlock Holmes."

"Andrew Cooper, Mr Holmes. As you may have guessed, there've been some developments."

"I don't guess, Mr Cooper. But yes, I deduced that something else must have happened. Show me the garden shed, if you please."

"Right this way, Mr Holmes." Cooper leads Sherlock around the side of the house, where a forensics team appears to be finishing up their investigation.

John sees a familiar figure, though, and heads over to him.

"Greg, long time," John says, offering his hand.

"John Watson! What brings you out here?"

"Ah, we're on the case. Mr Cooper hired us."

"We? You're not... John—"

"I suppose technically Mr Cooper hired Sherlock; I'm just here for... well I'm honestly not sure why I'm here. But then, I never did."

"Do you mean to tell me Sherlock Holmes is here, on my crime scene?"

"Er, yes?"

"That absolute bastard!" Lestrade erupts.

John is definitely confused now. "Do you want us to wait until your team is finished up? I can get him out of the way if that's—"

"He's _not dead?!"_

Suddenly John is just as furious. "He didn't bloody tell you?!"

"How long has he been back with the living, then?"

"Five months," John says with a quiet, seething rage. "Greg, I'm so sorry. I assumed he went to you, too; figured you were bloody well angry with him, and that was why we hadn't heard from you. I can't believe—Jesus," he concludes.

Sherlock has to have finished his inspection by now, but John sees that he is feigning interest in the siding of the small shed. Avoiding Lestrade, then.

John stalks over to him, and Lestrade follows a piece back.

"Sherlock, would you like to explain to me why Lestrade had no idea you were still alive until approximately three minutes ago?"

"John, take a look at the body, would you? Is there anything odd in this blood spatter?"

"Do _not _change the subject. Did I not tell you the first day you were back to go see the others who thought you were dead?"

"You did, John but—"

"No. No, this is unbelievable. Did you wait to come back to me, too? How long did you wait, hmm? Who else have you _not _told about your fucking idiotic stunt?"

"John, please. As soon as I ... finished the job, I came straight to you. I swear I did." He drops his voice lower, mindful to keep Lestrade out of earshot. "You were all I could think about, those last few weeks. I went straight to you, John, when it was over. Please, believe me."

"Let's say I do. Why didn't you tell Lestrade? Does Molly know? I bloody hope your brother does."

"Molly knows. She was the one who helped me hide that first day. Remember that I told you 'one of my people' helped me? It was her."

John can't believe this. He had actually believed that Sherlock had been honest with him, had actually told him everything like he swore he did. Obviously, that was an absolute lie.

"No," John says, shaking his head. "No, I can't fucking—After all this, after you _swore _you told me everything about the time you were gone, you're going to tell me Molly Hooper has known for three years that you were alive? While I grieved? While I mourned for you?"

"John, I didn't lie to you. I just didn't want to upset you; I was trying to be considerate!"

"You have a very strange definition of the word 'considerate', Sherlock. I'm going home, and you are _not_ to follow. I'll pack your things; send them to Mycroft or something."

"John, you don't mean that."

"Yes, I bloody well do."

"Please don't mean that, John, I'll give you time, I'll give you space, but please don't make me leave. I—" Sherlock freezes. He knows he has to say something, do something to turn this back around. He can't lose John after all of this. He's in too deep; and somehow, he knows John is too.

John is angry, upset, and rightfully so. All that anger and frustration and _emotion_ John had felt the first few weeks of Sherlock's return were flooding back into him at once.

John doesn't say anything, just looks at Sherlock with the most open and honest face of devastation Sherlock has ever seen. It makes his chest seize up, and he wants to throw his arms around John and hold him until that look is gone, gone forever and never mars his Doctor's face again.

But Lestrade is right there, looking fairly cross himself, clenching his fists and waiting to see if he can get a good shout or two in. Sherlock thinks Lestrade might actually punch him. Maybe that will help, somehow; if John sees Sherlock get hit in the face, he'll feel that some justice was done, and that he doesn't have to be angry anymore.

Sherlock turns to Lestrade to elicit some kind of response, to see if he can trigger the punching.

"Lestrade, please allow me to ex—" _Crack_. Lestrade's fist slams into Sherlock's cheekbone. Reeling, Sherlock thinks the detective may actually have broken something. He's shouting some choice words at Sherlock, but Sherlock is only focused on John.

"John," Sherlock croaks, his cheek twinging in pain. Lestrade certainly packs a punch.

"Don't come home." John says.

Something in Sherlock's chest seems to crack. The walls come down, and Sherlock Holmes is undone.

###

John lies in the middle of his bed, trying to sort through Sherlock. Not an easy task, that.

Part of him wants to just delete him, delete everything about Sherlock, just ignore that he's alive and move on.

But in the middle of the bed they've shared for five months, in the bed where they've touched, kissed, held each other tightly, John knows he can't.

He can't erase their closeness, or the secrets they know about each other. He can't erase those kisses, their entire friendship.

Hell, he tried for three years to delete Sherlock's death, and he couldn't do it.

Angrily, he punches his pillows into submission, curling up with tense muscles. He lets out a scream to ease his discomfort.

It doesn't much help.

On the second day, John treads downstairs to Mrs Hudson's flat, knocking gently on the door.

"I was beginning to wonder when I'd see you. Come in, come in." She ushers him onto her couch, bringing in two cups of tea.

"I don't mean to impose, Mrs H., honestly."

"It's no problem, dear. I take it you want to ask about Sherlock, then?"

"I—well, yes. The man is too brilliant for his own good, most of the time, and I'm about as sharp as biscuit; how am I supposed to know when he's telling me the truth?"

"The same way as always, dear. Do you remember how quickly you fell in with him? You were so good for him, you know. You were one of a few people whose approval he looked for. You trusted him from the start."

"And then he jumped off a building."

"Yes, he did. But he did it to protect you, misguided though it was. Sherlock's not used to caring for others; he's got his own way of showing it, anyhow. It's not going to be what you expect of 'people', it's got to be what you expect of _Sherlock_."

"I can't just excuse the lies he's told and the pain he's caused because he's Sherlock. There has to be a line, an expectation of being a human being."

"And he's giving you the pen with which to draw that line. Choose wisely."

Mrs Hudson politely finishes off her tea, and takes the cup to the kitchen.

When she returns to her sitting room, John is gone.

###

Sherlock sits with arms crossed and brow furrowed as he watches his brother bring in breakfast on a tray.

"Not hungry."

"Oh stop being a child; you haven't eaten the entire time you've been here."

"I wasn't _planning _on being here this long."

Mycroft shoots him an impatient glare and pushes the tray in front of his brother, gliding back into the kitchen for his own meal.

For once, Sherlock does as he's asked, and eats the majority of the food in front of him. He's in no mood to argue with Mycroft over something as dull as grapefruit and toast; he's too busy replaying his words over and over. What could he have said differently? What could he have done to make John let him stay?

It has been four days since John kicked him out. Sherlock has snuck back to Baker Street to pick up his laptop and a few toiletries while John is at work, or once, to watch John sleep at night. His slumber is fitful, and lines crease his forehead.

It's on the fifth day that Sherlock decides he has reached his limits. He will give John until the end of the day to contact him, to let him come home. After that, Sherlock will rebuild the fortress around his emotions, and never again will anyone and their hateful sentiment permeate his barriers.

At 12:01 on the sixth day, Sherlock Holmes begins to close down everything he's ever felt for Dr John Watson.

###

At the end of a week, John is no closer to making a decision than he was four days ago, but he's beginning to accept that he needs to speak to Sherlock again, to see if the man might give him any more hints about his intentions.

At 9:02am on the seventh day, John picks up his phone as his first patient of the day walks in.

_There are things I should have said. I need to see you one more time._

He drags a hand over his face and does his best to greet Mrs Roberts, complaining of wrist pain.

On his lunch break, John checks his phone: no response.

When his shift is over, John checks again. Still nothing.

Wearily, John packs up his things, shrugs on his jacket, and walks home to Baker Street.

As he unlocks the front door, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He steps inside, flips it open as quickly as he can. It's Harry, asking if John's planning on visiting for their mum's birthday next week. He trudges up the stairs, disappointed, and opens the door to the flat.

And drops his bag.

Standing in the middle of the sitting room, back to the door, is Sherlock Holmes, hands in pockets, gazing out at the street below. John's not sure if he's angry that Sherlock's just shown up, or if he's relieved that the man was willing to talk after all.

But something isn't quite right about him. Sherlock stands ramrod straight: shoulders back, head held high, eyes as cold as the Arctic.

John carefully hangs up his jacket, rubs his hands together to warm them a bit, and gingerly approaches the still-as-stone figure of his friend.

As soon as he is within arm's length, though, Sherlock jolts across the room, beginning a frenetic sort of pacing.

"I'm glad you came, Sherlock. I... I guess I haven't really figured much out, except that it seems as though you should be involved in this too, somehow. That there are things I need to say to you, and maybe there's something you wanted to say to me."

He clears his throat and watches Sherlock's strides speed up.

"Do you, er, do you want to say anything to me?"

The pacing continues, and John can tell the man's brain is in complete overdrive.

"Sherlock. Stop. Sit down, will you?"

Sherlock swallows, fear creeping into his throat. He does his best to give John an icy glare, but he fears something in his eyes gives away the terror he's feeling. He sits in his old armchair, but bounces a knee up and down with nervous energy. His placid mask begins to slip; he can feel the cracks forming with every word John speaks.

"Thank you. Now," John continues, "I am going to talk and you're going to listen. Alright?"

Sherlock says nothing, so John presses on.

"I know that it's hard for you to understand my feelings most of the time, but I need you to respect them anyway. I do boring things and have boring _emotions_ which I know you hate so much, but I need to know that you can handle that. You hurt me, very deeply, when you jumped off that roof. You know that. And when you came back, it hurt almost as badly. I let you back into my life on the condition that you told me what you had done and why, and with the understanding that things had to be different.

"And they were. Different, I mean. But it was good. I was happier than I can ever remember being. You brought back excitement, passion for life, and a friendship that I had missed desperately. You also brought me a more ... physical relationship. I thought it would help us both understand what we meant to each other. At that crime scene, though? When I found out that you had withheld some _hugely _important information from me, I was - I was very angry, yes, but I also felt betrayed. You betrayed my trust, Sherlock. You made me doubt every word you told me, every touch we ever shared.

"And maybe that wasn't quite fair for me to do, place all your sincerity on one thing. But I've realised that despite all of that, God help me, I need you. I need you to be mad and brilliant and cunning and dangerous. But I also need… I need to figure out if I can handle a relationship with someone who denies sentiment as strongly as you, and who has repeatedly hurt me for reasons that can no longer be considered 'my own safety'."

"John," Sherlock interrupts gently. "I don't deny sentiment. I… I'm afraid of it. It weakens me, clouds my judgment. _Sentiment_ is the reason I jumped off a—"

"Don't you _dare_ call that sentiment! You made a stupid, horrible decision with that magnificent brain of yours, not with your heart. You left me for three years, Sherlock! Don't you dare call that sentiment."

Sherlock jumps to his feet. "John, you _know_ why I did it: I've told you every detail, every horrible thing I did to come home, to come back to _you_ as quickly as possible. It hurt me just as much as it hurt you, being apart for that long. It did."

"Yes, you did tell me all those things—though one huge fucking detail was left out until a week ago, if you recall—but how can I know that you understand what this is doing to me?"

Sherlock's downcast eyes flick up to John's, wide and child-like in fear. His stomach lurches, and his voice cracks as he whispers, "I do understand, John. I swear that I do. I just don't know how to show you that I understand, and you won't let me do it outside the flat anyway, so—"

"You think holding my hand and kissing my forehead shows that you understand how much you've hurt me? Is that what this is about?"

"No, John. Not exactly. I meant that I want to show you affection because I don't have the words to tell you that I understand."

John takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He holds out his arms, palms open, towards Sherlock. "Well then, show me that you understand. Show me what you mean."

The remains of the icy mask shatter, as a rush of warmth bursts into Sherlock's chest. He wraps his arms around John tightly yet still gently. He nuzzles into John's coarse, greying-blond hair, breathing in his scent and pressing lips to his scalp.

John brings his arms up slowly, letting Sherlock hold him, soaking up the affection and concern and love that radiates off of Sherlock.

Sherlock tilts John's face up towards his own, and asks John with his eyes if he can keep going.

In that moment, John isn't quite sure how he ever doubted the depth of Sherlock's emotions, or his ability to care enough. He feels a bit ashamed of himself, that he had been so deeply loyal so easily but not given the man the benefit of the doubt.

Mrs Hudson had said that John couldn't hold Sherlock to the same expectations as others: somewhere along the way, there was a divide.

But as he brought his lips to his detective's, he knows where to draw the line, and it isn't a line at all.

It's a circle that surrounds Sherlock and John, separating them out from the 'other people', in this as in everything else.


End file.
